the title of this piece is neither a flirtation with the macabre nor a premature summons to the ancestors. In our culture, we are often guilty of cynical silence, hoarding our most profound praise until the subject can no longer hear it. We wait for the finality of transition to write the “truth” in ornate prose.
This column is a rebellion against that tradition. It is a testament of love and a tribute to life; a vintage bouquet of flowers offered while the recipient can still smell their fragrance, a narrative written while the lion still has his roar. It is a tribute to the reporters’ reporter, Aremo (James) Olusegun Osoba.
I am not entirely sure why he dropped the second of the two names he shared with my biological father, who also celebrated his 90th birthday last Monday and hails from the same local government as him.
What I know is that journalism, in its most sublime form, is a duality of craft. It is straddled by two distinct orders: those who possess the lyrical alchemy to turn ink into gold on a page, and those who possess the visceral, restless courage to hunt the truth where it hides. Everything else in a newspaper is mere advertising.
In the hallowed pantheon of Nigerian media, two titans stand as the North Stars of these traditions. Uncle Sam Amuka-Pemu, the nonagenarian sage and founder of Vanguard, remains the undisputed grandmaster of the written word – the Akinrogun of prosaic journalism, if you like. They call him “Sad Sam” as a columnist.
